


Needful Things

by tiptoe39



Series: The King Sequence [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a place Mohinder can go to get what he needs. Utter PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needful Things

**Author's Note:**

> My humblest apologies to Stephen King. For [](http://blossommorphine.livejournal.com/profile)[**blossommorphine**](http://blossommorphine.livejournal.com/)'s CEO day, and for [](http://frozenfoxfire.livejournal.com/profile)[**frozenfoxfire**](http://frozenfoxfire.livejournal.com/), who requested more needy!hinder. I think this qualifies. Thanks to [](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/profile)[**moorishflower**](http://moorishflower.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

"You're here." The voice was a growl in Mohinder's ear. A single finger traced the line of his jaw. The breath on his skin perked up goosebumps from shoulders to ankles. He shuddered.

"Sylar." The word was more than a name. It was an admission. _Yes, I'm here. Yes, I've returned._

The apartment was ill-kept; mildew ate at the kitchen sink, and the tiles had faded with age and disuse. It wasn't the sort of place either man was used to calling home, but it was their asylum nonetheless. Here in this haven of anonymity, where neighbors looked away and landlords were faceless wraiths collecting money from post office boxes, they came to get what they needed.

Mohinder always knew when Sylar would be there. And Sylar was never not there when Mohinder arrived.

Now, he turned to accept a crushing kiss that pushed his lips apart and coaxed a groan from deep in his chest. His hands balled into fists on Sylar's shirt. Panting, desperate, he let his body sag against Sylar's, trusting in the practiced balance of a sociopath to keep him from breaking under the weight of his own selfish need. Sylar had no trouble shouldering such a burden; he had no morals, no guilt to fall back upon. Mohinder needed him for that, as well.

"Shh," Sylar whispered into his mouth, hands smoothing down the anxious tangles of his hair. "It's all right. It's all right, Mohinder. I'm here."

Reassured by a serial killer that everything was all right. The thought was almost laughable. But Mohinder whimpered instead, throwing his arms tight around Sylar and trying to kiss away the intensity of conflicting emotions that never seemed to stop. "God, God, what am I doing here again," he whispered urgently, dropping his head onto Sylar's shoulder as he allowed Sylar to guide him into the bedroom, to close the creaking door.

Sylar continued to whisper reassurances, beautiful meaningless things, as he dotted kisses along the line of Mohinder's jaw, down along his throat. His hands fought with the buttons of Mohinder's shirt, baring, inch by inch, the expanse of chest that crested forth against him with each surge of shocking sensation and emotion.

"Need it," Mohinder moaned haplessly, pulling at Sylar's belt. "Need you so badly, God."

"I need you, too," Sylar whispered, and it didn't seem real, didn't seem quite like the truth. But that didn't matter, did it? Mohinder thought, dim flames of cognition against the background of Sylar undressing him, lowering his head to kiss at one peaking nipple. He needed it to be true, so in this place, it was. He could think of it as a lie tomorrow, when he awoke knowing that the marks on his body were still there, proof of his sin.

The mattress creaked wearily when Mohinder dropped onto it. He had undone Sylar's shirt, now, too, and he was quickly working his frustrated fingers down into those belt loops and pulling out the leather bastard of a belt to set him free. When his fly came down and Sylar's cock was in view, long and wavering there in free air, Mohinder sucked on it needily, as though he could drink something from that tap that would make it all better. He moaned and allowed Sylar, no, _encouraged_ him to grab fistfuls of hair and force his mouth down. Sylar did, fucking himself roughly on Mohinder's mouth until Mohinder was near gagging, but when he pulled back, he caressed Mohinder's jaw anxiously, and it was Mohinder who looked at him with gratitude in his eyes.

And it was Mohinder who turned over first, who reached for the bottle on the bedside table and handed it anxiously to Sylar, who waved his ass in the air, spreading his own cheeks with the press of two ardent palms and demanded, "please, please, hurry," like time was running out. He ached inside and out for him, needed things he didn't know how to express. Sylar was his benefactor then, the one man alive who could sate his hunger. He needed, and Sylar was everything he craved.

Sometimes Sylar was rough with him, shoving two or three fingers in without even a thought, growling obscene whispers about how badly Mohinder wanted it, was choking for it. "You can't help yourself," he'd crow sometimes. "You need me, you want me inside you all the time. You feel so empty without me."

"Yes, yes, I do, I need your cock inside me," Mohinder would say, shocked at his own obscenities but unable to stop them. "I'm always thinking about it. I could die sometimes for how badly I need you there fucking me."

"I'll always give you what you need, Mohinder," Sylar would say gently.

Not today. Today it all went unsaid. Today Sylar was gentle and deliberate with his ministrations. He massaged Mohinder's hole, relaxing the pucker slowly, taking his time. In a way, it was crueler than when he was rough; Mohinder writhed and whined on the bed, wordlessly begging for more than he was getting. His knees stiffened and he held his ass up higher, trying to force fingers in that were still just teasing at his opening.

Then they were there and inside, and Mohinder gasped and wheezed, pushing back hard and arching his back so his face rode low against the bed. Sylar's motions were deliberate and perfect,and Mohinder was sighing and reaching for his own erection, needing something to relieve the stress. He pulled at it, one low sure stroke from root to tip, and then Sylar slapped his hand away. "My job," he said, kissing the swell of Mohinder's lower back as his fingers twisted inside him. Mohinder gve a cry and stiffened as desire and pleasure shot through him.

He couldn't help but break the silence, then. "Fuck me, fuck me, Sylar, fuck me," he babbled, incoherent. "Now, now, now, now."

Sylar's chuckle was warm and low. "I told you," he whispered, pushing his cockhead up against Mohinder's slicked entrance. "I'll always give you what you need."

There was no noise but a hiss of breath as he slid inside.

"Yes," crooned Mohinder, savoring the glory of completion. Sylar gave another low noise, half-chuckle and half-groan. They stayed still a moment, reveling in the connection between their hitched bodies, the spikes of sensation that rocketed around and through them even in their stillness. This was the one moment of triumph Mohinder had in the whole seduction: feeling Sylar this hot and this hard inside him was proof that he wasn't the only one needing something.

Then Sylar rocked firmly into him, pushing him forward, and his cry was choked by musty bedsheets as his face dove into the mattress, whole body bending with the force of Sylar's weight. Another moment of stillness, of breathless wonder as the sparks flew at manic speeds.

Then back, and they inhaled; forward again, and it was a gentle rocking that quickly accelerated to a a harsher, more intense series of pushes and counterpushes. Sylar slammed forward with a groan, a growl; Mohinder moved back against him, forcing unbearable friction to ripple through their bodies. Silence and incoherent gasps gave way to "yes" and "please," and in a moment of beautiful broken tension Sylar for the first time began to vocalize his own need. "Jesus Christ, Mohinder, you feel good," he said through a set jaw. "Fuck, fuck, you're amazing."

Warm hands reached beneath Mohinder's stomach, but instead of reaching for his aching erection they lifted him up bodily off the bed and held him aloft until Mohinder was in his lap, riding his cock of his own volition. His body heaved, and sweat pooled on the back of his neck as he pushed himself down and ground wantonly on Sylar's legs. Now the hand began to stroke him, sure and strong, finger twists at the tip and callused palm at his base, and Mohinder began to shake uncontrollably, still far from orgasm but just overwhelmed at the sheer stimulation. His thighs ached and trembled from the exertion, but his body was thrilling with endorphins and he knew the worst of the ache would wait for tomorrow. For now, he just continued to piston himself up and down on Sylar's thick cock, letting rough perfect palms coax him skyward.

For the final act, with almost delicate precision, Mohinder pivoted, drawing one leg over Sylar's lap until he sat facing him, remaining impaled on him the whole time.The move brought Sylar to silence, and his eyes remained wide, riveted, through the whole feat. Mohinder felt a swell of inward triumph. He could still blow Sylar's mind, even though he was the needy one here.

And then Sylar was pushing him back down onto the bed, folding Mohinder's legs up and over his shoulders, and they kissed deeply as the change in angle switched up all the friction into new, insanely intense combinations of push and pull, block and release. Mohinder's hands trailed sharp fingernails down Sylar's arms; Sylar arched forward to rub his stomach against Mohinder's desperately leaking cock. The pressure, teasing as it was, would be enough; Mohinder groaned into the kiss, bit Sylar's lip and scraped teeth along his tongue. His voice struggled to let out muffled shouts.

"Mohinder," Sylar gasped out during a break in the kissing, panting hard. Sweat dropped from his forehead onto Mohinder's cheek and rolled away again. The sheets beneath them were damp. "Mohinder, I can't-- oh, God--"

"Yes," echoed Mohinder, angelic harmony to Sylar's animal growl. "Yes, please, go, let go, more, harder, more."

"God!" Sylar was screaming into his mouth as he came, pounding into him in uncontrollable strokes, driving Mohinder's back so far down into the mattress it was a surprise he didn't tear it right through. When Sylar's back snapped up again, his face curving skyward, his hands came forward in the same motion to clasp and squeeze at Mohinder's erection, and the one pulsing press of hands was all that it took to shatter the tension. Spattering his stomach and Sylar's with white, he arched upward under him, His hands clutched at the back of Sylar's neck, his hair, his shoulders. Nails drew faint red lines along pale skin.

Silence reigned then, or near-silence. Just the thrumming of two heartbeats and the exhalations of mingled breath. When lips finally moved, they were to drop lazy kisses along rough jawlines and onto wet lips.

Eventually Mohinder would ask, "Why do we do this?"

Sylar would only inhale and kiss his neck again. It wasn't a question that needed an answer. And this place was only for needful things.


End file.
